


all you have is your fire...

by Merideath



Series: all you have is your fire... [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Banter, Clint's farmhouse, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Porn, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 06:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3799900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merideath/pseuds/Merideath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She didn't start the game, but she sure as hell wasn't going to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all you have is your fire...

**Author's Note:**

> It feels like this little oneshot has been forever in the making, perhaps because it did take quite awhile. What can I say, my smut writing skills are rusty. Or rather I just haven't gotten back to the right headspace for it and like always got bogged under with doubting myself. The fic takes place at Clint's farm, but really there aren't any spoilers in it for AOU, I was just inspired by the first leaked trailer and well I seems to only make friends with enabling enablers who enable. I hope you enjoy this ball of fluff and smut. 
> 
> Huge thanks go to Aenaria, becisvolatile, rainnecassidy, dopemixtape, and thewriterchick for all the pompom shaking, handholding, and beta work done on this little story. You are all awesome and I am not worthy. 
> 
>  
> 
> Title from Arsonist's Lullabye by Hozier

"Morning," Darcy says, voice falsely bright as she rummages around in her backpack for her last pair of clean panties and her toiletries bag. Her jeans aren't great but they'll do for another day, she decides, picking them up. There's an unintelligible grumble from the bottom bunk. Darcy glances over her shoulder to see Steve burrow deeper under his pillow. "Rise and shine, farm boy."

"Mornin'," Steve says, voice rough with sleep. His hair is sticking up in odd little tufts, long lashes a dark smudge on his cheekbones. A pillow scar runs down the side of his face, cheeks flushed warm with sleep, and the corner of his mouth is glistening with drool. He barely fits in the bunk, legs curled up to the side and Darcy has a mental flashback of trying to put her dolls to bed in a far too small dollhouse she made out of cereal boxes and glitter. Steve looks better than Not-Ken and Not-Barbie did, especially not after Darcy once left her dolls sleeping in the oven. Christmas dinner that year had the taste of melted plastic and the salt of a tiny child’s tears. Also it was a little burnt.

For fourteen days they have been sharing the kid's room of Clint's farmhouse. Fourteen days of sleeping on a creaky, though surprisingly sturdy bunk bed on old sheets. The peeling cowboy wallpaper, faded brown shag carpet, plastic dinosaurs with their beefy little unblinking eyes and the charmingly creepifying faces hidden in the cracks and shadows on the ceiling had all the rustic charm of a horror film. Or possibly the evil clown doll Rogers found lurking in the back of the closet.

Fourteen days and nights. And she is never going to grow tired of seeing Steve in the mornings. Okay, that is a lie; she could do without his waking up at o’dark thirty to run laps around the poor cow (Helga or Hellmann's or Helena) in the field.  The only plus side to being woken up is the sly smile that creeps across Steve’s face as his eyes focus somewhere other than on Darcy. Asshole.

She could almost forgive him for the rare sight of seeing him on the mornings he wasn’t up at the asscrack of hours-too-small-to-be-awake. Steve was up most of the night, long after Darcy scrambled up into her bunk bed, tugged the covers over her head and fell asleep listening to the voice of the team arguing long into the night.

She doesn’t belong there - not with them, the other A team, the one that left behind a body count and not a bunch of henchmen dusting themselves off after rolling a car over a cliff. Barton didn't take too kindly to the notion of painting a red stripe down the sides of his tractor.

Darcy is there because Thor asked. Thor asked, the captain agreed to keep her safe, as if she wasn’t a fully grown adult who could take care of her own damn self, and that was the end of that chapter of the Semi-Life and Weird Times of Darcy Eleanor Lewis, Intern Extraordinaire. She doesn’t even know where the hell Thor went off to but she is damn sure that Jane is having a better time hiding out on Asgard or wherever. They probably never run out of hot water there and have to boil the kettle to rinse conditioner out of your hair or brave the ice cubes pouring from the showerhead.

Steve Rogers is a man that takes five minute showers, and seems happy about it. The asshole.

It feels an awful lot like being somebody’s kid sister that nobody wants to play with, and the lack of tech is not as liberating an experience as she would have liked for it to be. Clint's farmhouse is in the middle of nowhere Iowa. Nowhere might possibly have been the name of the nearest town; decent wifi and coffee were even further than that.

Not that she’s going into town anytime soon. Or possibly ever.

_'Blah, blah, blah...no.'_

Whatever, Captain Sassypants.

Except...except Steve being a sassy little fucker kinda makes her day. Not that she’s going to say it; she probably doesn't have to, from the way she brays like Diego (the donkey that lived two farms over but had a raging boner for Clint's front porch), every time he puts his bitch face on. And really, there was a lot to be pissy about.

"You want coffee?" she asks, turning on the ball of her foot.

He flicks his eyes over her, and Darcy pretends her body doesn't react to the heat in his gaze. That her pussy doesn't clench, or her nipples ache. Steve's eyes drag away to focus on a spot of blue crayon scribbled on the cowboy covered wallpaper. He clears his throat and shifts his right knee up a little higher.

Score.

"'S'that my shirt?"

  
Darcy pulls the cotton t-shirt between thumb and forefinger and shrugs her shoulders. "Maybe."

The low curse Steve groans out lets her know it does wonderful things. Her nipples are hard through the thin white tee, and a swirl of flame tightens her belly. There are so many things she hates every day, but this, this slow teasing bit of tension they have built up over the last two weeks wasn’t one of them. It is one of the few things that kept her mind from going over the deep end in a froth of anxious thoughts. Steve Rogers is a tease, who knew?

"It was clean. You can have it back when I'm done with it."  
  
"S'my last clean shirt."  
  
"Fine," Darcy says, crossing her arms. He gets a better glimpse of her panties, a flash of her belly, and the bottom curve of her tits as she drags the shirt over her head, turning her body at the same time. The shirt lands on the faded red and white quilt covering him.  
  
"Fuck," Steve says, voice dropping an octave.

Darcy raises her hand to make a score mark in the air. It’s not a game she thought she would ever play, but god, if she was going to play it, she was going to win.

.....

“Oh my god, no. No more board games.”

“Why not?” Clint says at the same time as Steve says “What about cards?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you cheat.”

“I don’t cheat,” Bruce mutters from the brown leather chair in the corner. The chair has seen better days, but then again so have most of them.

“Do I smell burning?” Clint sing songs, not bothered to look up from the bit of twine in his hands.

“I don’t,” Bruce says, scribbling something down on a yellow legal pad, the kind Darcy’s dad always had around the house.

“It’s no fun playing when you count the cards, Banner,” Clint says.

Steve jerks his chin towards a slightly charred box. “There’s always RISK.” His gaze slips from the box to meet Darcy’s eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching to the right. Ugh, asshole. An asshole that looked far too good in a goddamned Mr. Rogers cardigan.

“Hell no. No cards, no strategy games. You all fucking suck. God, I miss the internet,” Darcy huffs, dragging her fingers over the battered spines of the books lining the shelf. She picks out a book at random, a Regency era bodice ripper form the look of the cover.  Barton swore blind that the books were just there when he bought the place, but Darcy had her suspicions that that wasn’t the whole story.

“Hey, Darce,” Clint calls out.

“What?”

“Put the kettle on while you’re in the kitchen.”

“Go fuck your donkey, Barton,” she says stalking out of the living room. She swings her hip to the left to hipcheck Steve as she passes. He sways with the force but doesn’t fall off his ballerina toes. For a moment Darcy feels the brush of Steve’s fingers on her hip. But as quick as the touch happens he’s got his arms crossed again, as if nothing happened.

Maybe nothing did. Except she can almost feel the lingering warmth of his touch, the low heat of his gaze that made her belly flip and her pulse jump. A smile curves crookedly on Steve’s lips, as he shakes his head a little, his right hand twitching on his arm.  

“There’s always Monopoly,” Clint says.

“Pass,” Bruce and Steve say within seconds of each other.

....

She isn't going to win.

_‘Okay, points to Team Rogers,’_ Darcy mutters. There is no heat in her words. Other places? Yeah. The kitchen window frames Steve outside chopping wood, his bare back to her as he picks up another piece of wood and set it on the stump, with a dull thud that Darcy feels more than hears. He twisted the axe around in his wrist, raised it and chopped the heavy piece of wood in two with little effort at all. God, she wants to lick the sweat from his back, kiss the little cluster of freckles that were just visible between his shoulder blades. Ugh.

“You’ve been washing that same plate for five minutes. Surely it must be clean by now.”

Darcy doesn’t jump. She wins points for that, what she does, however, drop the plate back in the sink. 

“Don’t you have a cow to milk, chickens to roast or bees to keep, Barton? And don’t call me Shirley,” Darcy says deadpan, setting the plate aside and searching through the hot dirty water for another plate to scrub.

The sound of nails scraping on the floor reaches her ears and Darcy looks up as Lucky pads into the kitchen. “Hey, Lucky,” she calls out and the dog’s tail flicks back and forth as he makes his way to his food bowl, and tucks into a small mountain of dry food.

“Cap won this round, huh?” Clint says, picking up a dish towel and setting to work drying the small mountain of dishes Darcy washed.

“What?”

“I think I watched this porno before. _The housewife and the Farmhand_.”

“Gross, I did not need that mental image. And what round? You don’t have a tv, so all I have to watch is whatever is outside this window while I play Cinderella. Right now my view is Captain America chopping wood sans shirt. I’m all about cheap thrills and shirtless men.”

“Whatever you say, Lewis.”

….

“You wanna tell me what that was about, or shall I guess?” Natasha asks when he steps through the back door and into the kitchen.

“Stark’s an ass.”

“I didn’t mean Stark,” she says, picking up the paper tag of the tea bag in the purple stoneware mug beside her. Red Rose isn’t her normal brand of tea, Steve knows her well enough to know that the tea she drinks is unfathomably dark and flowery. The kind of tea his mother bought when they had enough pennies spare. The tea that Peggy and Falsworth drank gallons of huddled around campfire or war room.

Steve never had much of a stomach for tea: too many cups filled with little honey to hide the bitter taste of medicine. Black leaves swirling in the bottom of delicate china.

"What?" Steve asks. He makes his way to the sink, turning on the tap. He keeps his face neutral and his mind as still as he can make it while still being awake as he methodically washes his hands, with lavender scented dish soap.

"Oh, please. It's adorable you think I can't read you," Nat says, letting the paper tag flutter down from her fingers.

"You couldn't always."

His words are a front, of course, but it’s enough to get a shrug from Natasha. She slips a faded and creased receipt between the pages of a dog eared copy of a Louis L’amour paperback the farmhouse was chock full of.

“So that’s how it is?”

Steve leans his hip against the counter, drying his hands on a faded dish towel. The towel has a motif of dancing ponies, and a badly mended cloth loop to hook it back onto the hook by the sink. “What is it you want me to say?”

“Oh, I dunno, Darcy?”

“She’s a good kid,” Steve says. He crosses his arms, and meets Natasha’s eyes. Narrowing his focus to the upwards tilt of her eyebrows. “You think I’m using her as some sort of distraction from the clusterfuck we’re in?”

“Distraction yes, but I don’t think you are using her, or the other way around. What I want to know is how you are going to explain to Thor that you’ve seduced the girl he left in your care.”

His mouth drops open. “I haven’t…”

“Save it, Romeo.”

“Yanno, that’s a tragedy.”

“So is your sex life.. or it was?” Natasha says, the corner of her mouth quirking up.

“No comment.”

“I’m not the media. That line doesn’t work with friends. Never pegged you for being led around by your dick, Rogers.”

Steve rubs between his eyes, and breathes out heavily through his nose. “I like her, she’s…”

“Not your type.”

“And my type is?”

“Competent, in charge, not a girl who changed her major seven times and is working as an unpaid intern to Jane Foster, in a field that is far removed from anything the girl studied.”

“You that pissed off that I’m flirting with Darcy, or that you didn’t play matchmaker?”

“Didn’t I?” Natasha asks, and Steve doesn’t stop the roll of his eyes. He doesn’t have time for Romanoff’s games.

“You done bustin’ my balls or can I go grab a shower?”

“For what it’s worth, you’re cute together."

"Thanks."

"Don’t fuck it up.”

“I’ll try not to.”

****  
  


…...

 

It's weird, Darcy muses as she lights the burner under the mauve enameled kettle, not because Clint said - he could make his own damn trough of shitty instant coffee (the good stuff had been gone for days, thanks to Stark and Clint. Bastards.). The farm felt like it was some place out of time, a little pocket universe of trouble just waiting to spill out into the world. Not for the first time she wished Thor had taken her with Jane, or maybe just left her alone and forgotten.

The team acted more like her own semi-functional family. Natasha was a cooler, more deadly version of her aunt Veronica, who only visited every other year. Darcy wished for all the world to grow up just like her. As for the others? Well she was reasonably confident Bruce would get along with her dad, or that he and Tony would at least appreciate her Dad’s collection of vintage computers. Maybe. They were a bunch of superheroes hiding from the world, regrouping...whatever, but it still felt like a family. If only Kate and Sam would get their asses back there so she had company at the kiddie table while the ‘adults’ argued over lumpy gravy and too much or too little salt in the potatoes.

But...there was always a but - or a butt - attached to a 6' 2" icon of badassery, sincerity and sass. The team squabbled like children half the time, and though Darcy had always been great at rolling with the punches, she felt at a loss to do anything to help. She did a hell of a lot more for Jane in the lab than liberally administer coffee, duct tape, and IT skills.

Every strategy meeting sounded like the Thanksgiving dinner before her parents got divorced. Darcy tended to tune out most of the shop talk as much as she tuned out Jane on a science bender. It's not that she doesn't care, but there is only so much techno babble and military babble she can stand before her brain bleeds out her ears.

"What the hell am I doing here?" She mutters dropping heaped spoons of tea leaves into the rose and gold teapot. Like most things, the teapot came with the farm, or so Barton said.

"Making coffee I hope?" Steve says reaching into the cupboard to hand her a fat bottomed stoneware mug. The mug had Winterset, Iowa stamped into the clay and a blue painted sprig of fern. She'd never been there, but it was the mug she used every day - at least for the last two weeks in this microcosm of testosterone, weapons, ten dollar words, and if she was honest (and mostly she was) the unexpected tension brewing between Steve and herself.

Their hands don't touch, but her skin prickles and the knot in her stomach twists . "I'm not drinking that swill Clint calls coffee."

"I'd kill for a Starbucks," Steve says, placing a second mug on the counter. This one is blue and white with Spokane, Washington written on the side.

"Really?"

"Can't I like coffee?"

"I’m making tea but there's a little instant coffee left if you want," she says. Steve makes a sour face and Darcy snorts out loud. “You drank the last of the good stuff two days ago. It’s instant or hot leaf water.”

"I've drunk worse," he says and at Darcy's arched brows he amends, "Just not much worse."

“Tea?”

“Yeah.”

Darcy catches the kettle before it can whistle shrilly and pours the water into the elderly teapot. She can feel Steve's eyes on her, and she glances up his eyes clash with hers, half smile ghosting across his lips. His eyes scan her face, drop down to her lips. The thread of tension tightens between them. His gaze falls to her hands. She stirs the spoon clockwise and settles the lid on top. Her hand hardly shakes at all. “Milk or sugar?”

“Milk, please.”

“Are you always this polite or is it just when you want something?”

“Never hurts to be polite. ‘Specially when you want something.”

****  
  


….

She wakes up in a tangle of sheets, Steve's name curling on the tip of her tongue. Her breath is short and her skin feels hot and tight. Her eyes shut and it’s a monumental mistake. Behind her closed lids she can still see the fragments of her dream, Steve’s bare chest beneath her hands as he fucks her against the kitchen door. Darcy whimpers, presses her fingertips between her thighs. Her panties are soaked.

“Fuck,” she mouths and rolls her lip between her teeth. "Please tell me you are asleep and didn't hear anything," she whispers, shifting uncomfortably and not sure she she wants him to have heard her moaning. Jesus Christ.   
  
Steve's breathing is even and Darcy's torn between going back to sleep or getting up and  locking herself in the bathroom. Seconds crawl by, tiny spiders made of time and embarrassment. Her mind maps out the possibilities: Steve awake, or asleep; million thoughts that swirl in her chest and catch in her throat.

  
"I'm asleep and I didn't hear you...," Steve says lowly, "call my name."

"Fuck," Darcy whimpers pulling her hands up to cover her face. She can feel the heat of her cheeks on her palms. Each breath is scented with her own arousal, lingering on her fingertips. He laughs then, a low rumble, that Darcy feels in the unsatisfied ache between her thighs, that keeps time with her pulse, her racing heart.

  
You are not winning this, she thinks, tossing back the faded Masters of the Universe sheets and kicking her legs free. She grabs the top of the ladder with one hand and tugs down her tank top.

Her heart beats wildly as she clambers down the ladder, trying to keep her brain as quiet as she can. Now is not the time to dredge up old issues, to doubt herself and the game they have been playing. She knows, knows deep down that he wants her, but there is always that little sinking feeling of doubt carving a hollow beneath her ribs. More often than not she feels like the skipped track on an album, the one nobody ever wanted to listen to.

Her feet are still on the rungs of the ladder, and she’s almost done convincing herself to climb the fuck up when warm hands cup her hips. It startles a gasp out of her and her left foot slips.

"Careful," Steve breathes against the shell of her ear. “Wouldn’t want you to fall.”

“No, we wouldn’t want that,” Darcy says. When exactly did her voice get so breathless anyway? Maybe while she was busy beating herself up. She really needs to stop doing that. What is there to fear anyway? She’s awesome, right?

“So who wins here?” he asks, lips brushing her ear. Darcy shivers, arousal curling sweetly in her belly. Steve squeezes her hips. The pressure is gentle, but the image it paints in her head is anything but. She steps down to the floor, curling her toes against the cold. The top of her head barely reaches above Steve’s shoulder.

“I win,” she says, turning around in his arms. The room is dark, the only light seeping through the crack in the brown gingham curtains casting strange shadows across Steve’s face. He’s practically naked, just a sinfully tight pair of grey boxer briefs and acres of smooth skin stretched tight over lean muscle. Steve tilts his head and his eyes catch the faint light.

“That so?”

“Uhuh,” she nods, rolling the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth. She sways a little, feeling the tension spark between them. The ball of fear rolling around in her belly melts away to nothing but a pinprick. “The better woman - that would be me - won.”

****  
  


“You sure about that?” Steve asks, sliding his hands down to cup her ass. The movement lifts her up off her heels and onto her toes. She wobbles a little, and reaches up to steady herself on Steve’s broad shoulders.

Darcy fills her lungs with air and jumps.

She leans up and sinks her teeth into his fat bottom lip. The noise Steve makes is more growl than moan, and before she can cheer herself on, her back is against the ladder and Steve’s hand is hiking her knee up as he kisses her. His body is hot and hard under her fingertips, the taste of cinnamon toothpaste lingering on his tongue.  They kiss until her lungs scream for air and she pulls away, leaning her forehead on Steve’s shoulder as she breathes. “Jesus Christ, Steve,” she gasps tightening her leg around his tiny waist.

“Mmmm,” Steve murmurs, with a small circle of his hips.

Tomorrow there will be bruises on her back from the rungs of the ladder, but for now she doesn’t care about anything but Steve’s mouth trailing sucking kisses on her shoulder, and the feel of his cock hard against her.

“Tell me this is a bad idea?” she says, internally cursing herself as she wraps herself tighter around him. Her nails dig half moons into his skin and she can’t stop the roll of her hips.

Steve lifts his mouth from her neck to meet her eyes in the dark gloom of the room. “It’s a bad idea, but…”

“But?”

“I want you,” he says, voice sandpaper rough. "Want this, and I.."

“Good answer,” Darcy says slanting her mouth over his. She spears her fingers through his hair as they kiss, her tongue curling behind his perfect teeth to tease the roof of his mouth.

Steve growls, a low rumble that echoes through her chest, as he moves the hand on her ass, shifting down so his long fingers press into her cunt through the slick fabric of her panties. “We should… fuck.”  

“Good idea,” Darcy says rocking her hips against his fingers. “Where?”

“That’s not… what I meant,” he huffs out a laugh. Darcy untangles her legs from his waist, and curls her toes against the cold floor. His dick presses into her belly for a moment before he puts a tiny bit of space between them, his hand heavy on her ass. Steve reaches down and palms his hand over his cock, squeezing himself through the tight cotton of his boxer briefs. His knuckles brush her abdomen, and Darcy sinks her teeth into her lip, and swallows back the moan vibrating in her throat.

“Bunk? Because I’d really like to,” she says, brushing her hair back from her face and twisting the strands around her fingers. The gesture is more nervous than coy, though what she has to be nervous about she can’t quite fathom, not with the way Steve is looking at her, all hunger and want that makes her pussy ache for his touch. God damn, Steve Rogers.

“Yeah,” he rasps, arching his neck down to kiss her. It’s light and quick, his tongue licking into her mouth. His hands slide up under her tank to span her ribs, thumbs lightly scraping over hard nipples. “There’s a rubber in my duffle.”

“Hurry up then,” she says, placing her hand flat on his  chest and giving him a little push. He doesn’t budge of course, at least not until Darcy lifts her arms into the air, smacking him in the face with her elbow. Or she would have if his reflexes weren’t all catlike and shit.

Steve takes a half step back with the awkwardness of her flailing limbs, but doesn’t move as she tosses the pale green tank across the room. The tank top lands on the collection of plastic dinosaurs and ends their free show. Steve eyes are a little glazed over as he looks at her. Darcy slides her hands up her sides to cup her tits. She rolls her nipples between thumb and forefinger gently, eyes locking onto Steve’s face. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips..

“ _Hell_ , Darce,” Steve husks with a shake of his head, white teeth flashing in the low light.

“That’s why I win,” she whispers back, smile curving wide over her lips.

“No argument here,” he says, fingers rubbing over the head of his cock through his boxer briefs.

Darcy bites her bottom lip and deliberately turns on her heel to climb into Steve’s bed. She tries to move slow and as sexy as she could imagine anyone slipping into a bunk bed with cartoon fire trucks and little dogs scattered over the sheets. Steve didn’t really seem to mind as he knelt down to tear through the contents of his duffle, grinning when he finds the tell tale crinkling package. He rolls up to his feet and with a odd little grimace shucks his underwear. His dick bobs as he crosses the space between duffle and bunk.

“Oh God,” she gasps. The laugh bubbles up before she can stop it, shoulders shaking more at the crease between Steve’s eyebrows and the way his hands hover near his hips. He’s got no belt to curl them around and the half Peter Pan stance is ridiculous, as ridiculous as Steve’s tiny waist and unflagging erection.

“Darcy,” he whispers, cupping his hand over his dick.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just...dicks,” she says waving her hand.

“I thought that was the general idea?”

“Yeah,” she says reaching past his hovering hand to trace her fingertips over the side of his cock. “But you have got to admit, as pretty as this is, it’s also hysterical. Bodies are ridiculous.”

God, she was an idiot. He must have fried her brain. It was the only acceptable explanation.

“Thanks,” Steve says, dry as the plaster on the walls. Ass.

Darcy drags her bottom lip between her teeth and curls her fingers around his cock. The skin beneath her fingers is smooth and hot, and she twists her fingers around him, squeezing firmly. Steve sucks in a sharp breath, his hips rock forward and his hand slaps against the wooden bed frame.

"Scoot back," he says, wrapping his hand around hers, tangling their fingers together and squeezing a firmer hold on his cock. A shiver runs down the length of her arm and arcs down her spine. Their joined hands pump twice and he pulls her fingers away, edging his knee onto the mattress.

Shuffling back, she makes room for Steve to fold himself into the small space the bunk bed gives. The mattress creaks beneath them. Steve's hand lands warm on her hip and  before her mouth can say anything she will regret, their lips meet. His hands are all over her as they kiss, sweeping up to circle his thumb over her nipple, and down the curve of her spine and over her ass. His fingers dig into the flesh and a breathy moan spill from her lips as their legs tangle.

His skin is smooth and warm, the muscles twitching as her fingertips explore his chest. She scrapes her thumbnail over a flat nipple and Steve squirms out of her reach. He pulls his mouth from hers, breath hot on her cheek. “Ticklish,” he murmurs moving her hand down on his side.

“Really?”

“No,” he huffs and nips at the edge of her jaw. Steve’s broad fingers trace over the waistband of her panties, rubbing over the little satin bow, and Darcy bends her knee, letting her legs fall open. She can feel  the curve of his smile on her skin and Darcy reaches down to trace each ridge of abdomen.

His fingers slip into her panties, and a small part of Darcy’s brain wonders how her panties haven’t caught on fire or turned to dust. Its a tease she can barely stand, as Steve touches her, his fingers exploring her with more reverence than she really wanted at that precise moment. “More,” she demands, and scrapes her teeth over his jaw.

A low rough laugh is her only answer until circles a finger around her clit. Darcy gasps, rocking her hips into his teasing fingers. Their mouths meet again. Darcy’s lips feel kiss-swollen and tingly. Steve’s tongue flicks the back of her teeth, and he slides one blunt finger into her pussy, soon followed by a second.

“Damn,” he says, mouth a breath away from hers. “So hot.”

She isn’t though, not in comparison to the heat Steve is throwing off, the heat of his dick when her fingers bump against it. She feels him out slowly, weighing him in her hand and keeping her touch feather-light. She rubs her thumb gently over the foreskin-covered tip where he’s slick with precum. His cock jerks, and Steve growls into her mouth, his fingers sliding deeper into her.

She hisses, and Steve pulls his hand back, slick fingers dragging lightly over her clit. “You okay?” he asks, rearing his head back to look at her.

“M’fine,” she says, curling into him and mouthing the tendons in his neck.

“You sure, Darce?” he says, voice husky with arousal, and tinged with worry. It was turn on Darcy never expected to have.

“Yes,” she says, pulling her hand free to cover his over her panties. She presses his fingers into her, and slides her hand back up Steve’s tense arm. “I didn’t say stop.” A puff of air stirs her hair and Steve shifts his body half over her. The bed groans in protest but all Darcy cares about is the sound Steve makes when her fingers find his cock again.

“Bossy,” he says, circling his fingers.

“Nope, just really in need of an or...gasm,” she quips. The last word broken on a moan. “Or like twenty.”

“Twenty, eh? I’ll try my best,” he rumbles. There’s laughter in his voice and Darcy’s stomach flips. The laughter is better than his worry. She stretches her legs open wider, her knee bumping against the wall. Darcy keeps one hand on his dick and wraps the other arm around his neck, letting her eyes fall shut as her orgasm builds with each teasing circle of his fingers. She strokes down over his balls and up again with just her fingertips dragging over the head of his dick. She pinches his foreskin between her thumb and forefinger, rubbing precum into the sensitive skin.

“Jesus, you gotta stop that,” Steve gasps, jerking into her touch. He slides his hand underneath hers to tug and squeeze his cock. Heat races through her body at the rough sound of his voice, and she wonders if she could come from his voice alone, rasping desperate and dirty in her ear.

“Steve?”

“Wanna make you come first,” he rasps into her hair. Steve moves her hand to his side, and turns enough to press his cock into her hip as his hand slips between her thighs.

“I am one hundred percent on board with this pl...an,” she says, words trailing off in a moan she can’t quite contain. Steve is good with his hands. Really, really good. His mouth is hot on her skin as his fingers tease her clit and sink into her pussy. His teeth scrape over her collarbone, thumb circling her clit, as his fingers curl inside her.

The tip of his cock drags wetly against her hip, and Darcy loses herself in Steve’s hands, his hard body hot against her. “Darcy,” he says as he increases the pressure of his thumb on her clit, fingers curling just so. There is half a sob caught in her throat as orgasm washes over her. Waves of pleasure spark behind her eyelids. Steve whispers low in her ear as he works he through her orgasm. Whatever words he says are lost in her pleasure.

“God, Steve,” she says her mind and tongue can form words.

“Good?” he asks.

“Do you really need to ask?”

“Always polite,” he says, curling his fingers one last time as he pulls the free. Darcy closes her knees, watches as Steve slips his wet fingers between his parted lips.

“Ugh, ass. Where’s the condom?”

“Here,” he says, shifting back and reaching for the condom. “You sure you want this?”

“Steve,” she says, plucking the condom from Steve’s hand and tearing the packet open. There is barely enough room to move around on the bunk bed and when Darcy reaches for his cock Steve’s head thunks against the frame above him.

“Ouch.”

“Poor baby,” she says rolling the condom onto his dick. Steve makes an unintelligible noise and fits his mouth over hers as she guides the head of his cock between swollen lips. A curse spills from Steve’s lips that almost feels like a prayer as he sinks into her. Darcy tilts her hips up, curls one leg over Steve’s narrow hip. The heel of her other foot is braced against the bed, sheets in a tangle around her ankle.

Steve rolls his hips forward, breath ragged near her ear. “Won’t last.”

“S’okay,” she says, clenching down on him. “Just move.”

Steve growls and braces one hand on the bunk. His calloused fingers drag down her side to dig under her ass. There isn’t much room to move on the bunk, just enough space for Darcy to loop her arm around his neck as Steve rolls his hips back and slams into her. She’s oversensitive, pussy clutching at each drag of his cock, but god he feels good. She holds tight to him until her hips ache and her fingernails scratch lines into his flesh to match the marks he’s sure to leave in her own skin.

A part of her wishes that more lights were on than the TMNT night light across the room.  If the lights were on she could see the flash of Steve’s eyes, see the beads of sweat glistening on his shoulders, and the flush of his skin as the friction built between them.

“God, you feel...,” he gasps, his mouth brushing suckling kisses over her neck and jaw. The hand on her ass shifts and he hooks her knee over his arm spreading her as wide as he can in the narrow bed.

The bed groans in protest and Darcy braces her hands on the bunk before Steve knocks out what little sense is left in her head.

“You too,” she murmurs, tilting her hips up as much as she can. Every breath she takes is filled with the taste of Steve Rogers. Little molecules of Steve that fill her lungs and curl over her tongue, and permeate her flesh with the woodsy scent of his aftershave, the salt of his skin and the underlying scent of the man himself. She curls her toes and holds on tight as a second orgasm ripples through her.

“Fuck,” Steve curses pressing his face in her neck as he buries himself as deep as he can. He comes with a low cry, breath hot on her neck, muscles straining above her body.  

She basks in the heat of his body, and feels the loss when he rocks his hips back withdrawing from her. His elbow cracks the bed as he fiddles with the condom, and a flurry of curses spills from his lips. Darcy laughs low, covering her mouth with her hand as she untangles her legs and tugs ineffectively at the blankets.  

“Cold,” she whines tugging at the blankets beneath Steve’s body.

“Gimme a sec,” he huffs, and wraps an arm around her, yanking the blankets free and up to her shoulders. Darcy is pleasantly surprised when Steve’s hands octopus around her, pulling her in close. She needs to get up in a minute, but first she lets Steve’s warmth sink into her, indulges in the comfort of his embrace and the buzz lingering in her blood as it pumps through her veins.

“Better?”

“So much better.”

“Thought you wanted twenty orgasms?”

“Later, duh. S’early still.”

“Uhuh.”

****  
  
  


….

The sun brings with it the scent of real coffee, thick and bitter, a mouthful of dark hair, and the prickly feeling of pins and needles crawling up and down his arm. Steve stretches, twisting his arm free from being trapped between the slats of the headboard. His bare ass presses against the cold wall. “Shit,” he hisses between clenched teeth, shifting his hips forward.

Goosebumps rise on his arms and chest, as if his body was only just noticing how cold and damp the morning was and his lack of even a scrap of quilt. Darcy’s bundled up beside him, rolled up in the blankets as if the things were trying to strangle her. He plucks at a corner of one of the quilts, and she curls up tighter, burrowing her head under the edge of the blanket.

He stills, watching the rise and fall of the multicolored lump beside him in the bed. At least he still has his pillow; it smells of Darcy, the fading scent of shampoo, and sex. Things hadn’t exactly gone as he’d planned last night, not that he really had a plan where Darcy was concerned - where they were concerned. He hadn’t expected to break so easily, but he’d been hard before she stepped down the ladder. It was a game and it wasn’t; with so much of his brain set to tactics the rest of him needed something to hold onto. If he was a better man he would probably be ashamed of having base desires. He was never that good a man.

“Darcy,” he whispers, somewhere in the vicinity of where he thinks her ear might be. The woman doesn’t stir. Steve sighs, and clambers over her, smacking his head only once on the bunk before his foot touches the floor. The discarded condom wrapper from the night before crinkles under his toes. He dresses in silence, thoughts running through his head as he makes his way to the bathroom, feet light on the floorboards.

Darcy doesn’t fit into any of spaces he had carved out in his mind as someone to date. Oh, on the surface, she is everything he ever fantasised about as a stupid skinny kid alone in his narrow bed. She is sharper and stronger than she let on, and that is another part that has him hooked. He could mark out his life in the names of the women that shaped it. Darcy isn’t any less for not being an agent, a  spy or a nurse. She didn’t weasel into his heart, but she could, and that was the trouble. A different fire burned at her heart, than the one that fueled his own. She is as lost in her own way as the rest of them trying to keep their heads above dark water.

Seduction was never his game, but he wants to get lost in her for a little while. At least, that is what he told himself as he tried to lock away his heart before he could lose it. Trouble is, Steve has never been great at hiding his heart.

_‘Don’t fuck it up,’_ Natasha’s words ring out in his head. He doesn’t know how to keep that from happening, not now, not ever, but there was a spark of hope lit up inside him. A hope for a future not tied up in loss and pain. It wasn’t much but he’d held onto less for a lot longer.

By the time he slips back into the bedroom Darcy is up, dressed in his cardigan, arms reaching above her head as she stretches up on her tip toes. Her hair is a wild mess, and the skin on her neck is blotchy and pink.

“Mornin’,” he says, shutting the door silently. Darcy startles, eyes going wide, cheeks turning a soft red. His eyes drop to the open buttons of the cardigan, the pale skin beneath it. “Sleep well?”

Idiot. Was that he best he could think to say?

Darcy’s eyebrows raise, head cocking to the side. “I don’t remember getting much sleep. You?”

“No, not really,” he replies, letting his feet carry him across the room. There’s a smile on her lips that he can’t help but match as Darcy curls into him, her nails scratching over his t-shirt. He buries his nose in her hair, thinks of hope and coffee, and the sound of Darcy coming apart in his arms.

****  
  



End file.
